


Wolves

by malchanceux



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Always a Girl Will Graham, Angst and Tragedy, Biting, Canonical Character Death, Double Penetration, Double Vaginal Penetration, Drama & Romance, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Meeting, Genderbending, Marking, Morally Grey Will Graham, Psychological Drama, Rough Sex, Rule 63, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Willow Graham, mentions of animal abuse, so many puppers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 15:25:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11854398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: It is a little known fact that Willow and Francis met in an institution. They fell in love, they got out; they moved away. A love story written in cheap ball-point pen and Xanax.Enter one Hannibal Lecter, because in no reality is a 'happily ever after' so simple. The good doctor sees an opportunity to finally be understood in his entirety; to be accepted. The only problem is that the 'opportunity' is engaged to another monster, and Il Mostro was never good at sharing.





	Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> I have never seen the last season of Hannibal. This fic and the depiction of Francis Dolarhyde is based off what little I remember from the original novel Red Dragon.

What if Mary

 

Was in the club

 

‘Fore she met Joseph

 

With no love?

 

Cover Saint

 

In lambswool

 

We’re surrounded by

 

The fuckin’ wolves.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Francis is tense today. Shoulders taut and face pensive; it is unusual to see on a Friday evening. Willow learned early into their relationship that gentle words would only serve to exasperate the issue, whatever it may be. Confronting what is bothering him head on would end just as bad.

“Dolly,” Will says, “Let’s take the dogs out for a walk. It rained all morning--they’ve been cooped up.”

For a moment Francis’ expression becomes entirely flat; for a moment he considers saying _‘no’_. But Will knows he’ll agree. He loves the dogs, and Willow more so. Francis would go, brooding and bothered all the same--but he would still go.

“Alright,” he says, his voice does not betray the mood he is in, but Will wouldn’t have her job if she couldn’t read people.

They walk in silence for a half mile, trekking through the woods at the back of their property. The dogs romp enthusiastically, heedless of the mud they are covering themselves in. Their wide smiles and lolling  tongues bring a grin to Willow’s face, and she laughs when Buster hops into a puddle obviously much deeper than the tiny dog had anticipated. It's her laughter and the dog's antics that opens Francis up, like a slow thaw. A thin smile spreads pursed lips, and Will knows she's won, even if her fiance did not know they were playing.

On their walk home things are more laid back. They both talk about their day, how their respective jobs were wearing down their patience, what they did for lunch, how tedious the traffic into town was. It isn't until they're back on the front porch, dogs a mess and Will pulling out the bathing tub, that Francis finally reveals what has been eating at him since he returned from work.

“Doctor Lecter has invited us to dinner.”

It takes a moment to process. Doctor Hannibal Lecter was Francis’ newest psychiatrist. Currently, he held the record for how long Dolarhyde could stand to see a shrink. Six months. Will didn’t know a lot about the man. Francis liked to keep things quiet. Not secret, of course, as there was none of those between Willow and him. But he did  hold privacy in high regard.

Will has never met the man, and never expected to.

“Oh,” she says lamely, keeping her hands busy as she pulls the hose into the tin tub. “I’m invited?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to go?”

A beat of silence. A hesitancy uncharacteristic of her fiance.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Will couldn't think of what else to say.

“Will you come?”

“Of course,” Will answers immediately. “It's just unexpected. And a little strange. None of your other psychiatrists ever wanted to meet me.”

“Doctor Lecter is different,” is all Francis offers as explanation. It is concerning for Will, as this is coming from far out of left field and the idea of it has eaten away at Frank all night. Possibly since this morning, which was his allotted time to speak with the doctor today. Why would Lecter want to see her, and why did the notion of it make Francis so uncomfortable?

“Is everything okay?” Will asks. She sets everything else aside--the hose and the tub and the soap--and holds Frank's gaze. She prides herself on reading people, but has she missed something? Some budding issue between them?

“Is this…  is this couples therapy?”

“What--no!” he quickly denies. “No, Will. It’s just dinner. He’s just…. Being friendly. Socializing; like adults.”

The answer is clumsy in Frank's mouth, like he is repeating what he was told, after asking the same questions as Will. It only adds to her suspicion.

“I’ll go,” she assures, and in the end does not voice her concerns. She was probably just being paranoid, which was not necessarily unusual for her. That, and this was the first psychiatrist Francis had regarded with anything other than disdain for. If this Doctor Lecter was capable of that, he deserved the benefit of the doubt.

For now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It is a little known fact that Will and Frank met in an institution. Their social circle is fairly small, so there are not many they need to lie to. Or, well, ‘lie’ wouldn’t be the right word. When someone asks how they met, they simply reply ‘through work’.

Will had a nervous breakdown while on the job; Francis was at his office when suicidal thoughts drove him to institutionalize himself. All said and done, they really _did_ meet through work. In a very round about way; very indirect. Probably not the pie in the sky first meeting everyone dreams about. But it was special to them; it held great value. They both helped each other out of that hell hole.

They fell in love, they moved away. They bought a house together in the middle of nowhere so they could be alone for miles and miles and miles. They adopted seven dogs because it made them feel safe, needed, and it let them pretend they were not complete hermits, as if socializing with a labrador retriever would actually count.

Two years tucked away in their little farm house in the Virginian wilderness and Francis proposes. He doesn't get on one knee, they both share the sentiment that such traditions are horseshit. He does get a ring though. It is simple; a thin silver band--they have a matching set. Will says ‘yes’ in a heartbeat.

It seems as though they will live out the rest of their lives in the same quiet manner. With their dogs and their issues and their love for one another. Happily ever after.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As though those ever existed.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Next Friday evening finds Will and Francis getting much more dressed up than Will had anticipated. When she agreed to dinner, she had not realized the extent of her compliance.

“You want me to wear _that?”_ Will says with enough of an edge to let Frank know he was pushing his luck. _‘That’_ so happens to be the only skirt Willow owns. She bought it for when the big wigs came into work because otherwise Jack, who was not as progressive as one might think, would have a damn aneurysm. She hates the outfit.

“It’s not that bad,” Francis says, but knows better than to say such a bold faced lie while looking directly at her. He keeps himself busy by giving his tie much more attention in the mirror than it garners. “If his house is anything like his office, you’re going to want to dress up. You don't want to be under dressed, do you?”

It is a weak excuse and he knows it. Will does not give a flying fuck how she looks, as long as she is comfortable. But Francis cares; Francis cares enough to want to try and impress the doctor. To dress Will up and show her off. She looks down at the clothing left out on the bed for her: a conservative pencil skirt that would end at her knees, and a white blouse, dressy but loose. He even laid out her pantyhose.

It isn’t that he is embarrassed of her, that much she can read of the situation. It's probably the only reason she puts on the damn skirt.

“Fine,” she huffs, like Francis is asking the world of her. And to Will, he kind of is. “But I'm not wearing the damn hose.”

Will gets a nervous smile and a gentle kiss in thanks. It’s _almost_ worth it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Despite what they may appear to be--the simple, kind, though _awkward_ couple with five-too-many dogs--Francis and Willow are not as innocent as they would have people believe. They haven't been in a very long time.

In his younger years, Francis killed his grandmother. She was a brittle, abusive old hag. If karma was the ruling law of the universe, she would have got her own much sooner than she had. Francis was the vengeful, hurt child that did what the universe didn't have the stomach for. Trapped in her aged, crippled body, the woman had little chance when pinned against the young, troubled Francis Dolarhyde.

Willow, on the other hand, killed a man in cold blood. She was twenty-four, still on the Louisiana police force, when she saw some hick tie his horse’s lead to the back of his pick-up truck. He started slow, to give the horse an idea of what was about to happen, before he floored the accelerator and dragged the animal behind him. Sometimes, on bad days, Willow will close her eyes and hear the horses screams. Then they stop, abruptly,  as the asphalt eats away at soft flesh like it is wet parchment. A long, red smear on the black top is all that is left behind; the smell of warm flesh and remnants of bowels permeating the air.

She pulled the man over. He wasn't high, he wasn't drunk. Just deranged. Something in Will snapped. She killed him, shot him in the neck, and used her police training to make sure the crime would never come back to her. The badge she wore over her breast signified the justice she was sworn to uphold. In Willow’s eyes, she had done just that.

Francis Dolarhyde is the only living person that knows her secret. Willow confided in him, just as he confided in her, during their stay at the institution. They held each other's darkness close to their hearts. It binded them, and together they were each other's confessional; they were each other's forgiveness.

They shared the strange sensation of not being alone after a lifetime of isolation.

For Will, he was the glue that held her tethers together; kept Will from fraying and losing herself. For Francis, she was the welcoming body that chased away the ever present guilt of his past and the horrors of a suffering mind.

“Taking a life is the ugliest thing in the world,” Willow had said after they both revealed their crimes to one another. Francis was holding her hand in a white-knuckled grip. “But sometimes… Sometimes it needs to be done.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh,” is all Will can think to say as she pulls up to Lecter’s Baltimore home. It seems whenever the psychiatrist is the subject of conversation her vocabulary flies out the proverbial window. Francis had not been joking when he implied the house would be _fancy_.

“Dolly?” she uses the only term of endearment Francis will allow; her voice is plaintive.

Her fiance only seems amused.

“Yes, Willy?”

“I think me coming was a bad idea. This is gonna be one of those things where I don't know which fork to use. I'm going to look like an idiot.”

“And I'll look like an idiot with you.”

It is that assurance, and the warm smile that goes along with it, that has Will getting out of the car. Her heart still flutters in her chest with nerves, and suddenly the stupid skirt and blouse are the most uncomfortable, irritating material that could ever grate against her skin. But she ‘man's up’, so to speak. Tonight isn’t about her. It is about her Dolly and what will make him happy.

When Francis knocks on the tall, intimidating front door, Willow peeks back at the refuge of her car. The Volvo sitting in Lecter’s driveway is probably the biggest scandal this neighborhood has seen in years. The chipped paint, old dents, and faded colour is the polar opposite to every other high end vehicle in the vicinity. The best example would be Lecter’s own car sitting next to hers. A bentley; an older model but one that has been taken care of. Never missed a tune up in its life, Will would guess. It shimmered immaculately in the setting sun.

It makes Will feel that much more on edge.

Their host answers the door in a three piece suit, and Willow’s hope of feeling comfortable at all throughout the night withers like an old bouquet.

“Good evening, Francis,” a far eastern accent rolls thick over carefully pronounced syllables. Sharp eyes and a practiced smile turn their attentions to her. “You must be Willow Graham.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Will says, hand out to shake. She keeps her grip firm. There is something that seems… _off._

“The pleasure is all mine,” Lecter corrects, bringing Will’s hand up so he can place a chaste _kiss_ at her knuckles. It is startling, but not necessarily inappropriate. Eccentric. All the same, heat rises at Willow’s cheeks. She never does well with attention or _socialising._

“Thank you,” is her stunted, awkward reply.

They are ushered to the dining room. There is an herb garden taking up an entire wall and _Leda and the Swan_ hangs brazenly over a crackling fireplace. Willow is willing to bet money that the glasses on the table are real crystal. It is entirely overwhelming; dizzying.

“You have perfect timing. Dinner is just being plated,” the doctor gestures for them to take a seat as he walks toward what Will is assuming is the kitchen.

Francis and Will are sat across from one another, with Lecter’s seat at the head of the table. Willow sits ramrod straight, oozing anxiety. She looks to Frank for support. His eyes are warm, his body relaxed. He had described Lecter’s office as borderline ostentatious; after several months of seeing the doctor, Francis must have become used to the surroundings.

Will has no such luck.

“It’s just dinner,” he promises. Translation: _this won’t be forever._ Deep breath, Willow, she thinks to herself. You profile the most heinous of serial killers for a living. You can make it through one lousy dinner party.

“ _Fois gras au torchon_ ,”Lecter says before placing the most intricately decorated plate Will has ever seen in front of her.

“A bit controversial,” she blurts before she can think better of it. Francis gives her a look, but in her defence Lecter doesn’t seem offended.

“Perhaps, though I never feel guilty about eating anything,” Will supposes that sounds about right coming from a man with one of Francois Boucher’s more _risque_ paintings hanging in his dining room. “Though I do employ an ethical butcher.”

That gives Will pause, and she can’t help but quip: “Ah, so it’s _ethical_ fois gras.”

“Willow,” Francis warns. She feels both indignant and guilty. She promised him she would be on her best behavior, but she also chafes at being scolded like a child.

“It’s quite alright,” Hannibal diffuses the building tension. “A little banter to keep dinner from getting boring. And fois gras is perhaps not the standard meal when meeting new friends.”

“It looks delicious,” Will amends.

“Hopefully it tastes delicious too.”

A small smile forms. Not everyone can handle Will’s _abrasiveness_ so smoothly. She shares a quick glance with Francis; his look is one of apology. She mirrors it.

The rest of dinner goes well. The conversation is light. Hannibal inquires about Will’s work as a teacher and profiler for the FBI; Will in turn questions Lecter’s work. She googled him, and admits as much. She knows he was once a medical doctor and read through several of his medical publications as well as his psychology articles.

Apparently, Lecter has read up on her as well. Both through the newspapers and her own publications, such as her monograph on the correlation of time of death and insect activity. For many this would be considered  inappropriate dinner conversation, but the doctor does not appear bothered. In fact, he seems enthralled.

“It is like a peek behind the curtain,” Hannibal says with a smile. “To hear of the intricacies of the Federal Bureaus work to catch serial killers.”

When they are done Hannibal regards the pink in Francis’s cheeks and comments on his three glasses of wine.

“Perhaps you should retire to the den. Just to let the meal settle before you go.”

Will is hard pressed to stay longer than necessary, but the doctor has been nothing but kind, and she didn’t want Francis to get sick on their hour ride home just because she was uncomfortable socializing. With her assurance that it would be alright, Frank heads toward the proffered den to regain his equilibrium.

“I’ll help you clean up,” Will offers.

“There is no need. Guests are not charged with dish duty.”

“I insist,” she grew up in a proper southern home, and what little manners she has will not allow her to just sit around while her host does all the work.

“I suppose there is not much I can do to stop you,” is quipped in a teasing tone.

In the kitchen they work well together. Will scrubs, Hannibal dries and puts the dishes away. There is a comfortable silence, and the whole thing is only a _little_ awkward. Will still feels incredibly overwhelmed by the sheer _opulence_ that surrounds her, but it has settled some. As they work, Will studies her surroundings. She _profiles._ Will thinks it is probably rude to do so to one’s gracious host, but she can’t exactly help it. Her empathy and her eidetic memory is not something she can shut off at will.

The kitchen is about the size of their bedroom. All the counters are marble, the accents stainless steel. Though Will got the sense Hannibal cooked most, if not _all_ of his meals, the appliances were well maintained and looked as though untouched by day to day use. Despite the aesthetic of the rest of the home, which has tasteful scatterings of art and artifacts, books and expensive furniture, the kitchen was uncluttered by decoration. This room has purpose--beyond that of just _cooking_. At least, to Hannibal Lecter it did.

With the confidence the man moves within this room, and the way he cooks and spoke of his food, and with how much money was spent on the cookware and ingredients, Will gets the sense that _this_ is the heart of the home. This was the den of a man whose reigning vice was gluttony. A man who must _consume._

Hannibal insists on scrubbing down some of the more dirtied pots and pans. Will acquiesces, and instead focuses on washing down the kitchen island. The doctor is still elbow deep in soapy water when Willow sweeps the last of the debris into a trash can. She folds her cleaning rag neatly onto the marble counter, and stares curiously at a rolodex. It has a strange placement; it sits amongst expensive looking cookbooks. She looks at a far wall, near the entrance of the kitchen, where a landline is installed. It seems strange for the two to be so far apart. Inconvenient and ill placed in a home where everything seems orchestrated.

Will grabs one of the books. There are several pages marked for review, and she looks through each recipe with mild interest. It is written in French and Will has to concentrate to understand what everything is. She knew French in the loosest of terms, her Louisiana upbringing guiding her through the recipe titles and tripping through the instructions.

 _‘Fois Gras’._ Goose Liver.

She flips through to another page. _‘Coeur de boeuf a la tripieres’._ Beef heart.

Another page. _Ris d’agneau._ Lamb pancreas.

 _Wait_.

Will goes through each recipe and its respective organ like a mental check list. Liver, heart, pancreas. They rang familiar--organs missing from a string of John Doe’s down in the Bureau’s morgue; them, and a handful of others. Surgical trophies. Not one of Will’s official cases, but one she has glanced over briefly. Enough to get the feel for the killer. Enough to spot a coincidence in her fiance’s psychiatrists culinary interests.

Enough for her mild anxiety to burst into an adrenaline rush.

Will slowly places the book back on the counter. She couldn’t hear the water running anymore, nor the _clanking_ of dishware being washed. She turns the slightest bit, looks over her shoulder. Hannibal stands with his back to the sink, expression the same, soft smile he’s been wearing the whole night. He studies her; he can tell that something in the atmosphere has changed. The doctor looks from her eyes, wide as she knows they must be, and then at the book in her hands.

The smile widens, sharpens, and his eyes turn to voids.

He knows _she_ knows.

“I don’t suppose I’ll be able to convince you two to stay for dessert.”

“I don’t suppose you can.”

A tension has built between them. Willow is waiting for the snake to strike, for the killer she knows Hannibal Lecter is to spring forth in retaliation. A reach for self-preservation.

Instead, he leans back onto the sink behind him and relaxes his stance. It is all done very purposefully, for Will’s sake. To ease her hackles.

“I apologize for my carelessness. I had meant for you to find out at a later time. I underestimated your abilities.”

“Why did you invite us to dinner?” There must be an ulterior motive. Was it because she was FBI?

“It is very rare I find an opportunity to make friends,” Hannibal explains. “I have plenty of acquaintances. Sheep mostly, some pigs.”

“And you saw this opportunity in Francis?”

“In you,” the doctor corrects. “Your fiance told me about how you two first met. He told me how you talked him off the metaphorical ledge.”

_He couldn’t mean-- Francis would never--_

“Do you really believe killing is the ugliest thing in the world, Willow Graham? Or is that what you tell yourself to keep the urge to kill under control?”

“I think we’re done,” Will bites. She takes the few first steps backward, unwilling to let the man out of her sight. But she rationalizes that Lecter killing her would be too much of a risk. He is a smart man; murdering a federal agent would not be as easy as killing a receptionist or an insurance policy salesman. With confidence she turns her back to him and walks briskly to the den.

“Francis, we’re leaving,” she hisses. Frank startles from the couch, disoriented at first and still a little tipsy. He sees the look in her eyes, a storm of grey and furious blue, and does not argue. With how he holds himself, how he follows her but is careful to not do so _too_ closely, Will would be willing to bet good money he knows about Lecter, too. And knows why she’s so upset.

Her fury shifts, its dark tendrils wrapping around the quiet affection she normally feels for the older man and strangles it.

Lecter does not follow after their abrupt departure. It is for the best. The snake clever enough not to corner the mongoose. With how angry Will is it is probably not safe to be driving, but Francis is inebriated and boy does _that_ piss her off. That Frank was aware they were dining with a cannibalistic sociopath and felt comfortable enough to get drunk on his wine.

Unbelievable.

Will drives until she gets to the city limits. When the buildings taper off and the cars  become far and few between she pulls over and parks the Volvo. They sit in the dark, tense and silent for an undetermined amount of time. Will is so upset she cannot find words. She hopes Francis’s silence comes from realizing his mistake, but she doubts it.

“There are _so_  many things that need to be said,” her tone is level, but she feels a scream perched in her throat. A potential for violence. “I don’t know where to start.”

“I’m sorry,” Francis breaths nervously. It is a quiet admission.

A bitter laugh is Will’s response. “For _what?_ For which disastrous decision are you sorry for? Is it because you told your fucking psychiatrist we’re murders, or because you knowingly let me eat human flesh without my fucking consent!”

Will has more to say--so much more--but the reality of the situation suddenly hits her like a brick. Nausea more intense than she can ever remember feeling before. Will flings the car door open and pukes. She heaves until there is nothing left to throw up, and then for good measure she heaves again. By the time her stomach settles she is crying, fat tears and loud sobs. She feels like she is flying apart. Where was the glue keeping her tethers in place?

At some point Francis reaches over and pulls her close. It is an uncomfortable contortion to lean over the armrest and onto his chest, but at this point Will doesn’t care. She takes in the familiar scent of him and though she is still furious, it is a comfort. They stay like that long enough for Francis to determine he’s good to drive. They share sloppy kisses and whispered reassurances before trading seats.

When they return home they go about their usual nightly rituals, as though neither of them has just partaken in cannibalism just hours before. They feed the dogs, let them out to use the restroom, brush their teeth, and kiss each other good night.

Wordlessly, Francis grabs his pillow and sleeps on the couch. It is the first time in years either of them has slept alone.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The first time Willow calls Francis _‘dolly’_ is with careful consideration.

Frank did not like to talk about his time before he killed his grandmother, did not like to divulge what physical and mental horrors he went through before finally _snapping._ But Will knew enough. She knew that pet names were usually trigger words. That they hurt far more than they could ever feel good.

Will stepped into his shoes and felt the words as he did. ‘Baby’, ‘honey’, ‘sweetheart’--they stung like salt to an open sore. But Will could also see how Francis looked at other couples; at their easy intimacy and their casual banter. He wanted it; yearned for it. And Willow was determined to make their relationship ‘normal’, or as much as it could be, one step at a time.

It is their one year anniversary. Francis made dinner while Willow gave a more _intimate_ gift. They held each other in a loose embrace while they caught their breath, sharing a pillow; spooning.

“I love you, Willow,” Frank breathed into her neck.

Will waited a beat, and then--

“I love you too, Dolly.”

There was a moment where Francis did not breathe. Where he processed her response and tried to determine if he was hurt, if he was angry--waiting for a flashback to when he was younger and his life was spiraling out of control. To when he was alone in the world, with no one who cared enough to protect him from the one person that was supposed to _love_ him.

It didn’t come. Not while he was holding Will against his chest, still _inside_ Will. Breathing in only her scent, and the smell of what they had just done permeating the air of their stuffy bedroom.

Francis lavished kisses to the back of her neck, and Will pretended she didn’t feel the dampness of tears against her skin.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next morning is hard. Will wakes up and draws a line in the sand. Stop seeing Lecter or stop seeing her. Francis knows he has made a mistake, and she can see in his eyes that he takes her threat seriously. He tells her he’ll find a new psychiatrist and that's that.

But things are still tense around the house. A month later and Will still feels the sting of betrayal like the wound was only hours old. She is short tempered, her moods mercurial. Will can tell that the constant chafing between them is beginning to take its toll.

They've never had a fight before. Neither know how to put the conflict to rest.

Along with the feelings of betrayal, Willow feels incredibly paranoid. There is a murderer on the loose that knows their secret. She cannot help but feel like every day could be her last without law enforcement breathing down her neck. Or that Lecter may have the same paranoia and try to get rid of any _witnesses._

It is a month since the disastrous dinner party, and Willow Graham admits to her building paranoia in the midst of a screaming match.

Lungs sore, throat raw; face red. This is the third time Francis and Will have devolved into yelling at one another. It is the first time Willow has revealed what has been eating at her since the doctor declared he was privy to their crimes.

“Is that what all of this is about?” Francis breathes like he’s blowing smoke from his lungs, his fury runs so hot. “Is this why we have been fighting? You’re scared of the police?”

“It’s at the top of a very long list,” Will hisses. “Right next to it is my utter exasperation that you’re _not.”_

Francis rubs his face with his hands, breathing slowly--exercises he’s picked up from several shrinks over the years. Willow knows he is counting to twenty, and to disrupt him now would only send them into another scream match.

It’s tempting.

Slowly, Frank’s hands return to his sides. His eyes are resolute, and his posture is no longer violent. Temper under control, he approaches Will. He cups her hands in his; grip firm but not threatening.

“Let me kill him,” he says, and though his voice is the softest it has been since their fight started, toWill it is as jolting as a gunshot.

“You can’t be serious,” Will tries to take a step backward, to remove herself from the surreal reality that had become their life. But Francis holds firm. His grip on her hands turns painful, his gaze more focused.

 _“Let me kill him,”_ he says feverantly. “Let me fix my mistake. Let me fix _us.”_

Tears spill down Willow’s cheeks. Did he realize what he was asking of her? Francis may be the one to end Lecter, but with her permission she would be just as responsible for his death. Could she do that again, murder in cold blood? Could Will handle killing again, or would this send her right back to an institution?

A dark part of Will whispers in her ear, a chilling urge to go forward with Frank's suggestion. He is right, after all. To end Lecter would fix everything--send their life back on the path it was before. All Will has to do was say ‘yes’; just agree and Francis would handle the rest. And what was so wrong about killing a murderer? Perhaps in the end they would save someone's life by taking Hannibal Lecter’s.

The voice of reason argues that it is not her place to decide who lives or who dies.

 _It could be though,_ she catches herself thinking. _We could end all of this now._

Will thinks about how easy their life had been before that monstrous dinner party so many weeks ago. Before Hannibal Lecter and his stupidly intricate meals; the beast pretending to be human, baring down a plight in the guise of _friendship._ Muscling into her fiance's head, earning his trust and coaxing their secrets from his lips.

“It has to be clean,” she hears herself say. “It can never come back to us.”

A look of elation passes over Francis’s features, but it quickly morphs into a solemn nod.

“I’ll be back later tonight,” Frank kisses her forehead, a wide smile breaking across his face. Will has half the mind to tell him how inappropriate his excitement is, but she’s too tired to fight again. “Everything is going to be okay now. It’s all over. We’ll all be happy in the end.”

 _Except for Lecter,_ Will thinks blithely.

Francis packs a duffle bag and leaves soon after. Will wonders how he’ll do it--how he’ll kill the snake that has slithered into their life and has tried to pry them apart. _Venom would be a poetic end,_ she thinks, and then very pointed stops thinking about it entirely. She does not want her mind wandering down that path. It never ends well for her.

Instead, Will grabs the half bottle of Jack from the kitchen and sets up camp in the living room. She tells herself it was to help forget what Francis was up to; so she could dull the guilt that would surely come.

In the end, it is to hide the satisfaction she feels for condemning doctor Hannibal Lecter to whatever demise her fiance found fit.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Fire is how one cleansed the soul. This is what Francis told Willow as explanation when he described in vivid detail how he killed his grandmother. She was wicked, and wicked people deserved fire and brimstone. Francis Dolarhyde was not a particularly religious person, certainly not Christian, so he took it upon himself to bring the flame to old Mrs. Dolarhyde. If there was no God to reign ashes upon those who were cruel, than man would have to pick up the slack.

She was in her seventies when she was murdered. Police called it an accident. The woman had left one too many candles lit overnight one too many times. An oversight that led to her untimely demise.

Willow, however, thought her death was quite timely; perfectly so. No more air to be wasted by spoiled lungs and sharp words.

As free as his grandmother's murder made Francis, the act of killing still haunted him. It was what put him in the institution in the first place.

_“If fire is how one cleanses the soul, then perhaps I should burn as well.”_

Hannibal Lecter had been right--Will was the one who talked Dolarhyde out of suicide, not the hospital staff. She had opened herself up to a man she had only known for a few _days_ and admitted the crimes she too had committed. If he deserved to die, so did she.

Finally the guilt had relented, if it had not entirely abated. Francis could not stomach taking someone’s life who had only ever been kind to him; the idea sent him spiralling and Will convinced him taking his own life would be no different. If Will was not wicked for killing a sociopath that slaughtered a _horse,_ then Francis was not wicked for killing the woman who had tortured him since he was an infant.

There were tears. Guilt and remorse being purged from the body in a physical form. Will had welcomed him into her arms with gentle words and soft lips; consoled Francis until all the pent up emotion was released. Not days later they were both released from the hospital with a clear bill of _mental stability;_ and so their happily ever after started.

If only Francis had mentioned the _Red Dragon_. If only he had told the whole truth of his grandmother's murder and why he still felt the need to see psychiatrists almost three years after leaving the institution.

Perhaps they could have had their happy ending after all.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Francis comes home it is four in the morning. Will is way past being tipsy and well on her way to being incoherent. The bottle of Jack is almost gone. The thought is a little sad, and she looks at the glass with big, round eyes.

“Why don’t we ever keep a decent stash of alcohol in the house?” she slurs accusingly.

Francis smiles down at her, from where she's lounging on the livingroom floor, tucked in amongst all the dogs. His look is one of fondness, but it is muted by… _something._ Will’s mind throws some ideas out, of what she is seeing in her fiance’s body language and the light of his eyes. She can’t place it though. The Jack isn’t helping.

“Because you’re always riding the fine line of alcoholism.”

“Am not,” Will tries to puff herself up, to sit up straight and look demanding. Instead the movement just makes her dizzy, and she tips too far back. She falls on top of Sebastian, their Wolfhound mix. The dog takes it with no more a complaint than a muted _‘huff’_ , used to Will sleeping on him anyway.

“Okay,” she admits, realizing now that she is much more drunk than she intended. Didn’t she tell herself to stop several shots ago? “Maybe I have a _little_ problem.”

It is now that Will notices something transparent and tubular in her fiance’s hand.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing we need now,” he says, an explanation without actually explaining anything. Francis stuffs the object into the pocket of his dark hoodie, before removing the article of clothing altogether.

Will thinks to be persistent, to find out what Francis is hiding. But she finds herself distracted when after removing his jacket, Frank starts unbuttoning his shirt. Francis Dolarhyde did not have a particularly taxing job, but between the two of them they made all repairs on their home and their cars by hand. With Francis doing most of the heavy lifting, and their farm house being a never ending _project_ , his chest and arms were well defined; stomach taut.

If nothing else, Will’s _dolly_ was a looker.

Will whistles, and giggles at her own immaturity.

“Come here often?” she mumbles, putting the Jack aside and hefting herself to her feet.

Frank’s expression stays painstakingly neutral. Will’s empathy is marinating in alcohol; she recognizes her fiance's responses are off, but not why or that it is important.

“Bedroom?” Will asks, tugging  at his belt loops. When Frank doesn’t move immediately, Will crowds closer to kiss and nip at his neck. She places more innocent pecks at his stubbled chin and lips, questioning, searching; wanting him to be as _excited_ as she was. Will runs her hand suggestively over the front of Frank’s pants, finds he’s getting hard. Otherwise, he is unresponsive. Shirt unbuttoned but otherwise unphased.

Willow frowns. Maybe she had read the situation wrong. She moves to step away, disappointed, before Francis growls and _picks her up._ He hefts her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing, hand grabbing her ass and legs to keep her in place. Will _yelps,_ the world spinning dizzyingly. Probably was not the best thing to do to your drunken significant other.

Nevertheless, it shoots an undeniable heat straight between Will’s legs. She laughs, huffs, as Francis carries her to their bedroom.

Frank sets her at the foot of the bed, and makes quick work of her flannel and jeans, practically ripping the articles from her body. Will hears threads tear, a button pops off her collar, but she can’t bring herself to care. She tries to help remove her bra and panties, but impatience has Francis _actually_ ripping the hooks on the back of the bra and pulling the cheap lace of her underwear off her legs. Will mentally notes he owes her new clothes, but the demand of it all has her excitement becoming jittery and warm in her gut.

When he lays her down across their bed he covers her with his body. Francis was a short man, not but an inch taller than Willow, but what he lacked in height he had plenty of in width. Well defined muscles translated to wide shoulders and a barrel chest. The hesitancy from before was stripped away, and as he held her in place with his weight alone, he ravaged her neck, lips, and chest.

It hurt, where he bit. It was unlike Francis to get so violent in bed, but Will finds she does not want him to stop. She closes her eyes and imagines what those bites would look like in the morning, round bruises with suck marks.

“Feels good,” she moans as he locks his jaw around her throat. “More. _More.”_

Will gets a growl in response before he flips them.

The sudden motion causes another bout of dizziness and disorientation. Will screws her eyes shut to the vertigo, waiting for it to pass.

Frank has no such patience.

Will hears him rip open a condom packet, feels as he rolls it onto himself. Frank grips Will’s hips in a bruising hold, uses his strength to _lift her_. Will barely has time to register what he’s doing before Francis let's go, gravity and alcohol-weak limbs impaling her on his cock.

 _“Fuck,”_ it feels good, it feels _so_ good. Will had not realized how wet she had become, but as Francis grinds himself inside her, completely buried, she finds there is no pain. Just a hot, slick slide.

“Please,” she begs, not sure what she is asking for. Francis seems to know, because suddenly his hands are back at her hips and he’s _using her._ Lifting Will up and pulling her down, his hips fucking up into her at the same time. It is rougher than he has ever been with her before, and Will likes it. She _loves it._ Frank fucks into her with a harsh slap of skin and all Willow can think about is how he just killed a man.

Will uses Francis’ chest for support; finds she is unable to hold herself up any longer. She’s close, _so close_. A heat pooling in her belly, an incredible sensitivity building at her clit. Just a little more and she’d--

Francis stills. He brings her down just as roughly as before, but does not move to fuck into her again. He is breathing heavy, chest heaving and Will knows he must be as close as she is.

“Dolly?” Will’s voice is half pleading and half whining. She opens her eyes and sees that his gaze has focused on something behind them.

 _A dog?_ Will wonders, but before she can look he cups her face with both hands and pulls her down for a kiss. It’s wet and sloppy, Will’s inebriated state certainly not helping matters. Frank makes slow, gentle rocking motions with his hips: a tease of what Willow really wants.

“Please,” she says, pulling away as much as he’ll let her. “I want more. _Please.”_

Frank bares his teeth at her plea, and through the haze of Jack Willow can read _lust_ and _violence_ in his expression. She’s too drunk to be frightened; too horny and used to sleeping with the wolves; her mind and Frank’s crimes. But it does give her pause.

“Dolly?” this time her question is one of concern.

Francis recognizes this. His lip curls in distaste. It’s not at her, Will can tell, but with her _sight._ That she can see the cracks in his mask and the beast that has always laid dormant. The feral hound that killed his own grandmother. It has never bother Willow before, but she gets the sense that there is something more. That there is something important, right beneath the surface. In reach if Willow could just concentrate.

Frank reaches across the bed and rummages clumsily in a bedside table drawer. He pulls out a black blindfold, a fake silk cloth they had bought when they had first moved in together and were still in the _experimental_ stage of their sex life.

“Oh, Dolly, I don’t know about that tonight,” Will starts.

“Please,” Frank says, and it’s the first thing he’s really said since taking her to bed. His voice is rough, like the growls he’s spoken in exclusively since picking her up in the livingroom. It is a lot less like a question than Willow feels in garnered for this moment.

“Okay,” she agrees, half because she doesn’t want to make her fiance uncomfortable with her sight and half because she just wants to finish.

Frank ties the blindfold for her, won't let her even lift her hands. It is a tight knot, he doesn’t want it coming off. When he’s done Will tries to test the tie, but Frank gathers up her wrists and keeps a grip with one hand. It should concern her, how much control Frank is taking away from her, but at this point Will only feels excited.

She expects them to pick back up where they left off: relentless fucking tumbling toward a quick end. But even after the blindfold is in place Francis does not move. For a moment longer Willow holds still, but she grows impatient and bold and tries to grind her hips down, to entice him. Will hears Francis hiss in pleasure before using his one freehand to grab her hips and hold her still.

Willow cants her head to the side teasingly, fully prepared to play that kind of game, when she feels a dip in the bed from behind. Her smile slips from her face and her heart begins to hammer in her chest: it wasn’t a dog.

“Francis?” her voice comes out more panicked than she intends. He doesn’t answer her.

A second set of hands whisper up her sides before cupping her breasts.

_“Francis!”_

“Shhh,” hot breath against Will’s ear, a familiar voice sending ice down her spine. Will can feel the warmth of a second body behind her, the texture of a man's chest pressed against her shoulder blades, the hard heat of an erection at her ass.

“What the fuck is _wrong with you?”_ Will isn’t sure who she is yelling at.

“None of that,” Hannibal _tisks_ , before a thick, silky material in stuffed in her mouth. It is not enough to be a gag, or to disrupt her breathing, just enough to shut her up. From the feel of it, from the _scent of it,_ it is the doctor’s tie.

Words stolen from her, Willow whines pitifully, pleading with a Francis Dolarhyde she thought she knew.

“There’s no reason to be scared, Willy,” the growl in Frank’s voice has simmered down, but it’s still there. A wolf lurking in his throat, ravaging his words and stealing any meaning. “This has to be done, _this has to be done._ ”

Francis grinds up into her, cock pressing deep inside Will, and tears start to collect against the dark material against her eyes.

“This will feel good,” Hannibal promises, tongue flicking against her ear. She tries to pull away but he grabs a fist full of her hair. Enough to control, enough to sting. The doctor’s other hand slides slowly away from her chest, down her side; fingers prod at the place she and Francis meet.

 _“Hmph,”_ Will arches back, a panicked reflex as a finger slides in alongside Frank’s cock. Hannibal allows the movement. He releases the grip on her hair and instead holds her throat, coaxing Will’s head back until it rests involuntarily against his shoulder.

Frank starts a gentle rhythm: shallow thrusts in and out. Hannibal lets his finger slide along with him, waits until Will’s slick drips down his hand before her inserts a second finger.

Will struggles against Hannibal’s hold then, having a terrible idea of where this is going. She tries to lift herself off the doctor's fingers and Francis’ erection, tries to pull herself forward and away from the serial killer behind her, but between their combined strengths they hold her tightly in place.

“I wouldn’t suggest struggling too much,” the doctor smiles into her ear, warm breath terrifying and erotic. “I am more than confident in my expertise, but you could hurt yourself.”

_Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you._

A third finger and now it starts to burn. Will figures the alcohol has helped to numb her up to this point, and her activities beforehand would have been good prep. But Willow has never been one for experimentation, nothing like this anyway--she has never used anything more than an average sized man or a dildo before. She was terrified of what two full grown men inside her would feel like--what kind of pain she might feel.

Lecter adds a fourth finger just as Francis thrusts _in;_ the slide is smooth but Will decides she _does not_ like having so much inside her. Instinctively, with her panic, Will’s body clamps down to try and push out the intruding bodies. It does little more than make Frank moan beneath her.

“Good girl,” Hannibal praises from behind. “You are doing wonderfully. So wet for us.”

An unbearable heat has taken over her face, and Will feels it creep down her neck to her chest. She couldn't deny the slick still building up and dripping onto both Francis cock and Lecter’s hand; her own thighs.

At this point Willow doesn’t know what to expect; she imagines Hannibal just forcing his whole fist alongside Frank’s length, imagines herself tearing open and blood mixing with her natural lubricant. All the gore she dealt with at work slowly churning and combining with her sex life.

Instead, unexpectedly, Francis once more stills and Hannibal removes his fingers. Hope bubbles in Willow’s chest. Perhaps Frank had come, and the doctor had found his own completion with his fucked up power play. _Was it over?_

Hannibal does not move away. Instead, Willow hears what sounds like the older man stroking himself with the same hand wet from being inside Will. A breathy sigh is released under the man's breath, quiet and contained. He moves closer still, the position a little more comfortable for Willow’s neck, before pressing the damp, hot head of his cock against the abused flesh his fingers had just been stretching.

 _It won’t fit,_ Will thinks hysterically. _It won’t fit, it won’t fit, it won’t fit._

The head pushes in, slipping right along side Frank’s still cock.

Will’s body tenses like a seizure patient. She hides her face against Hannibal’s neck, breath coming in short, desperate huffs, barely aware of the keening she was emitting.

“You’re doing so good for me, Willow,” Hannibal praises, gently rocking his hips, inching his way inside of Will. “Just like that, try to relax and open up for me. This doesn’t have to hurt.”

_Doesn’t it?_

It seems like an eternity before the doctor is completely seated inside her. Will’s breathing is labored, chest heaving; a thin sheen of sweat over her skin.  She feels so full, so _impossibly_ full she fears she may burst.

Alongside the burn of a stretch, there is pleasure. Pleasure in the erotic nature of what was happening to her, and the pleasure she knew her _rapists_ were taking from her body. Some of it was her empathy, Will knew, but some of it was her own. Will was not surprised. Will has known for a long time she was fucked in the head.

Tears soak through the blindfold; a moan escapes her obstructed lips. Willow lets her head lull at Hannibal’s shoulder, nose buried at the crook of his neck. Every breath is scented by sweat and expensive colon, a mix of pine wood and exertion. The smell is wild, and seems fitting for the beast mounting her. Will feels the undeniable urge to bite through the soft flesh there, to maul and mark like the animal she knows deep down she is.

Perhaps then they are all wild things: a pack of rabid wolves, clawing for dominance and territory. Willow lets her eyes close, her mind running away from her. In her minds eyes she sees a mess of teeth and fur and claws.

A set of hands rest at her thighs, another grabs her hips.

“Feel good, Willy,” Francis huffs with the same, unfamiliar gravel. “Need to _move.”_

There’s a jerk of hips, Frank trying to fuck up with the same hard pace from before. Willow yelps from behind Lecter’s tie. It’s too tight, it’s too _much_ for the same rough treatment from before. He is going to rip her in _two._

“No,” one of Hannibal’s hands leaves Will in order to hold Francis still. There is no growl to the doctor’s words, but there is certainly a beast commanding his voice. The effect is instant, and Frank does not try to move again.

This was not a fight for dominance, Willow realizes. There was no question who was in charge here. This was all symbolic for Hannibal, a means to an end. It frightened Will that she could not determine his motivations, or how this was all going to end for her.

“Patience,” Hannibal coaxes as he releases his grip of Will’s fiance. “Take it slow, let her adjust.”

And then Hannibal is moving inside her. He pulls himself out, a slow slide before gently fucking back inside. Setting the pace, leading by example. Will hears Francis _huff_ in exasperation, but he complies. He _obeys,_ perhaps the most disturbing thing about their whole affair. How much control Hannibal Lecter has over the both of them.

They move in tandem, Hannibal and Francis, fucking in slow, long thrusts. The doctor turns out to be right, because soon Will seems to loosen, their movements don’t seem to be so forced. She can feel a new trickle of her slick moving down their cocks and making her thighs damp and sticky again. It starts to feel good again, deep where the head of their cocks meet, and the slow pace becomes excruciating.

The idea of her becoming desperate for either of them angers Will; she wants it to be over--she wants to come and she wants them _out_ of her. She wants _control_.

When they next pull out, the same measured thrusts, Will pushes herself up with her thighs before slamming herself back down. She tightens around them, clamping down in a way that usually drives _Frank_ crazy in bed. Francis moans, surprised by the new pace she’s setting and the sudden grip. He tries to hold her down by the legs, so instead she grinds down, moving her hips the way Francis has always liked it. Hannibal grunts from behind, and he adjusts his grip in order to keep her still.

“Do you not like our arrangement, Willow?” Hannibal speaks into her sweat matted hair. He thrusts in sharply next to emphasize just _what_ their arrangement is. The movement throws Will forward, and Francis lets go of her wrists so she can catch herself on his chest.

Will regains balance and quickly yanks the tie out of her mouth. She moves to do the same with the blindfold but a strong hand stops her.

“It stays,” Hannibal says simply before letting her hand go.

“Go fuck yourself,” Will pants, but she does not move to remove the blindfold again.

“That’s what we have you for,” Francis snarls, and it is so out of character for him Will doesn’t know how to reply at first. But indignity mixes with her temper, and at a loss for words she launches forward and _bites_. She locks her jaw around the meat of his shoulder, and even when he shouts Will does not let go.

Will expects some kind of violent retaliation, but instead Frank just _takes it_. Confused, she doesn’t know what to do when Hannibal’s hand rests firm at the back of her neck, holding her in place. He doctor looms over them both, holding them down and overpowering them physically and mentally. What was his end game? What the hell was he getting out of all of this?

“That’s it, Willow,” Hannibal praises as he starts up a more brutal pace. Francis follows suit, trying to keep up with the older man, groaning when the movement pulls at where viscous enamel meets his skin. Will moans around her mouth full, both in pain and in pleasure. The stretch is still a lot to adjust to, but when they are both fully seated inside her it’s almost worth it.

Now that Hannibal deems Will ready for rougher handling he once again takes full control of the pace. He fucks into her with little restraint, the sound of his hips slapping against her ass mixing with the sound of their labored breathing and shared pleasure. Francis thrusts up like an afterthought, hips stuttering every other thrust from over sensitivity. He’s close, Willow can tell, and it both angers and excites her.

Willow moves with them, pulling up when either moves to pull out, and meeting them with the same enthusiasm she had shown Francis before. If this is happening, it would be on her terms, she decides. Frank would come because she deems it so.

Again Willow grips as well as she could around them, and she sucks at where she still bit into flesh.

“Oh fuck,” Francis hisses, and his fingers dig into Willow’s hair. He tries to pull her away, but she is not having it. Will recognizes this is mentally not the same Francis Dolarhyde she has been living with for the past three years, but physically, she still knows his body inside and out.

Will bites down harder, hard enough to break skin. She times it with a downward thrust, and feels as Frank stills entirely, his blood rushing into her mouth and his cum into his condom. It feels like taking back control, and a lot like victory.

Hannibal uses his grip on her neck to pull her away from her mark. It is easier to breath like this, and she pants, blood and saliva dripping down her chin. The doctor lets her adjust her position, only enough to be more comfortable before he uses his superior strength to once again pin her down ontop of Francis.

Willow lets him. She does not fight to straighten herself as the doctor continues to use her body, Francis’ slowly softening cock still tucked inside her. She understands now, to a degree, what this is to the older man. What ritual he is completing.

It was never a fight for dominance, but a _show_ of it. A power play to reveal the true dynamics between them. To put them all in their proper places.

All those weeks ago Hannibal Lecter had revealed his interests in Willow, his plight with pigs and sheep. The wolf was looking for companionship and he had found potential in Francis and Will. But he needed them to know the order of things.

That is what tonight is all about.

Neither of them last much longer. There’s no need to, Hannibal has already proven that he is the only alpha in the room. Willow is first. She is so overstimulated, both emotionally and physically, she could not possibly hope to hold out for very long. She moans into Francis’ chest, smearing blood across her lips and his skin, as her vaginal walls spasm around both Lecter and Frank’s cocks.

Francis moans and grips viciously at the sheets, over sensitive and their continued movements borderline painful for him.

 _“Good girl,”_ Hannibal praises, groaning out his pleasure as he forces himself deep inside of her one more time. He stills, muscles taut, and it suddenly occurs to Will that she doesn’t know if he put a condom on.

The doctor leans forward and buries his teeth in her shoulder, much in the way Will had done to Francis. He bites down until she bleeds, heedless to her shout of pain. Like an animal claiming its mate.

There are a few still moments of them each catching their breath. The room stinks of stale dog and sex, expensive colon and corner store whisky. Will cries quietly, both from the pain pulsing at her shoulder and from everything catching up with her. Her muscles were sore, her head ached with the beginnings of a hangover, and she did not want to even _begin_ thinking about how painful _walking_ was going to be.

Hannibal pulls out with an easy slide, dislodging Frank as he went. With his weight off of her, Willow removes the blindfold and moves to get away from Francis.

“Willy,” Francis starts, arms coming up as if to _embrace_ her. Will sees red, the gentle gesture not belonging in the aftermath of her assault. She swipes at his face, nails like claws, and hear him yelp as she tears at flesh.

“Don’t say that!” she yells down at him. She sees blood welling across his cheekbones and nose and feels elated to see she has caused him pain. She pulls her fist back to inflict more. “Don’t you _ever_ say my name again!”

Her fist connects with a painful jolt. Francis grabs her around the throat in retaliation, strangling her with both hands and the intent to _kill._ Will can see it in his eyes, an outrage that cries out for blood. This is not the gentle monster Willow fell in love with in a mental institution. This is something much more unhinged.

 _“Dolarhyde,”_ Lecter’s voice does not raise and yet to Willow it seems as loud as a jetplane. Francis does not let go immediately, he squeezes harder, at first, growling indignantly. Black spots start to form in Will’s vision before Lecter places a firm hand at Frank’s throat.

 _“Dolarhyde,”_ the doctor says in the same tone of voice, and Francis tosses Will to the side. She lands sprawling on the rumpled bedsheets, coughing and stuttering and trying to _inhale._ Will isn’t sure how long she lays there, naked and just focusing on _breathing_. She thinks she may lose some time, blackout for at least several minutes, because when she comes to she is neck deep in a bathtub.

Hannibal stands at the sink, dressed in slacks and a red sweater with its sleeves rolled up. He is fixing his hair in the mirror; a gentleman piecing himself back together after releasing the animal within.

“Do you rape all of your patient's, doctor Lecter?” Will’s voice is raspy and throat terribly sore.

“I don’t consider you a patient.”

“I wasn’t talking about me,” Will has the urge to get up and cover herself with a towel, but she honestly doesn’t trust herself to stand. “I thought psychiatrists were supposed to _help_ their clients.”

“I have helped Francis discover his full potential.”

Will lifts her head from the back of the tub, gingerly sitting up. “He never stopped seeing you, did he?”

“Francis did not lie. He did stop seeing my in a professional manner, just as you had requested.”

“Manipulating the truth, lying, whatever you want to call it. What did you do to him?”

“What he had been searching for since he killed his grandmother, all those years ago; what all the psychiatrists before me tried to hinder. His Becoming.”

 _“Becoming,”_ It wasn’t a question because Will already knows what the doctor means. Becoming, evolving… _devolving._ The violent nature that lurked beneath the skin of a tortured little boy was rearing its ugly head. Will sometimes refered to it as the _‘breaking point’_ at work; where killers begin to bare their teeth with abandon. “Is he not interesting enough with just one death on his hands? Does he need to rack up a body count to be worthy of your _companionship?”_

“Francis Dolarhyde will never be worthy of being my friend, let alone for me to consider him an equal. Neither would the _Red Dragon.”_

“Then what is the point? Why change him, why the power play?”

“You know the answer to that already, Willow. If you stop and collect your thoughts, I know you’ll see _my_ _design.”_

 _“Doctor Lecter,”_ Francis’ voice came low from the other side of the bathroom door. “It is done.”

“We will be right out,” Hannibal replies. He picks up a towel from beside the sink and holds it out for Will to take. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment and her temper. On shaky legs, she slowly stands from the tub. Will hastily grabs the towel and pulls it around herself. She uses a second one to dry off, not wanting to be exposed to Lecter anymore than what was unavoidable.

“Get dressed, please,” Hannibal gestures to a stack of clothes left on the toilet seat. He does not budge from his place at the sink, or give any indication he plans to give her privacy. Will doesn’t bother to ask for him to leave, not sure how she would handle being denied any more control than she already has been tonight.

Will dresses as quickly as her body allows her, careful to keep her back to the doctor. Panties and jeans are the hardest part to maneuver; her thighs and her vagina protest every movement.

“It was never about Francis,” Will says, trying to distract herself. “You never saw a kindred spirit in him.”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, and it’s all the confirmation Willow needs.

“You planned on releasing the _Red Dragon_ from the very beginning, for whatever reason you think justifies destroying a man's sanity. But you couldn’t predict me: Frank’s loving, murderous fiance. The woman who thinks like a killer for the FBI.”

Will slips on the clean bra next, fumbles with the hooks a few times from nerves.

“You conned Francis into trusting you, and he told you all about his suicidal thoughts and how he met me. All about my time in Louisiana,” Soft flannel slides easily over her arms. It feels good to finally wrap herself up in clothing; like a security blanket. It grounds her. “You saw an opportunity in me. A different kind of _potential.”_

“You haven’t disappointed yet,” Lecter said as Will turned back to face him. “You have exceeded all my expectations.”

“So what’s the plan now? Francis can’t survive as a monster forever. There’s a reason he ended up in that institution: he can’t handle the instability.”

“No,” Hannibal agrees. “I don’t suppose he would be able to fool people for very long. His mask has many cracks, large and small.”

“Then you understand this can’t last.”

“The Red Dragon was never meant to,” the doctor says cryptically. Before Will can prod any further he opens the bathroom door. Will isn’t sure what she’s expecting, but for the bedroom to be just the way they left it… isn’t it. The sheets are rumpled, Will’s old clothes are scattered amongst the floor, and there’s a small blood stain on the bed from where Willow bit Francis.

“This way,” Hannibal says as he walks toward the front door. The dogs are nowhere to be seen, and for a moment Will panics and thinks they’ve done something with them. She hears a scuffling from upstairs, the sound of dog nails on wood flooring and a muted whine from a particularly anxious mutt. Relief hits her like a brick. She will never forgive Francis for what has transpired tonight, but Will thinks she might have killed him if something had happened to their dogs.

Outside the air is crisp from the evening frost. Will’s breath mists the moment she steps outside. The sun has begun to rise, pink fringes lighting up the tree line around their property.

The scent of gasoline smoothers the usually dew-soft smells of the early Virginia morning.

Will spots Francis standing in the middle of a grass field, just to the left of their driveway. There are three empty canisters of gas tossed to the side, and a ring of kindling circling Frank. He is naked, despite the cool weather, and staring up at the sky, arms out in surrender, as though seeking benediction from a god.

There is a zippo in his hand.

“Francis!” Will screams, a terrible urgency pulling her forward. Despite the discomfort she tries to run to him, to _stop_ him. “Francis, stop! What are you doing?”

Strong arms grab her around the waist, holding her back.

“Get off me you piece of shit,” Will twists and turns and bites to get free. “This is your fault, _this is your fault!”_

Hannibal pins her to the porch banister, forcing her to watch Frank’s apparent suicide.

“Was this your great scheme? To get him to off himself?” Will sobs. _“Francis, you idiot, he’s manipulating you!”_

“That is no longer Francis Dolarhyde,” Hannibal said matter-of-factly.

The _Red_ _Dragon_ stood amongst his ramshack pyre with all the intensity William Blake had intended. Despite everything that has happened, Willow understands how Francis had been gaslighted to reach this point. He went to Lecter looking for bedrock, and instead Francis built his trust on quicksand.

“Francis, you can’t leave me!” Will shouts. “Don’t let this _dragon_ consume you! You are you’re own person, you always have been!”

“No,” Francis growls back, finally turning to face them. “I was always a coward, too scared to break free of my chains.”

“You were never a coward, Dolly,” Will insists. “You were not a coward the day you killed your grandmother, and you were not a coward the day you left the institute to spend the rest of your life with _me.”_

“I was only delaying the inevitable. I was only denying myself,” tears slip down Francis’ cheeks. “My only regret would have been leaving you behind. It’s why it took me so long, I think, to finally face my Becoming. But then I met Doctor Lecter; I knew you would be safe with him. He can _understand_ you, Willow--in a way I never could.”

“Please don’t do this,” Willow begs, her legs have long since given out. She leans her weight against the banister and relies solely on Hannibal’s hold on her to stay upright. “You don’t have to do this, Dolly. _You don’t.”_

“Hannibal said you would try to kill him; that deep down you were a predator too,” Francis turns back to the sky, to the malevolent god who saw fit to put the _Red Dragon_ in his head. “I didn’t believe Lecter at first, when he told me that he would look after you. That he was a better fit. You told me once how ugly killing was, even when it was a necessity. But you agreed so easily to killing Doctor Lecter; you looked so _excited_ when I came home and you thought I killed a man.”

Will’s tears dry up, her empathy wraps a noose around her. She _sees_ how far gone Francis is. To him, to live after everything that has transpired after the last several months, is more terrible than facing death. Death was not an end to him, but a _beginning._ The Red Dragon was a new start, the ability to be born into the world strong enough to fend off any who would think to be cruel to him.

This was an abused child trying to turn back time and stop himself from ever becoming a victim.

“This way we don't have to hide from our true natures anymore,” Francis opens the zippo; a small flame came to life in his hands. “This way we can both be free from the chains we hung around our own necks.”

He drops the zippo over a pile of gas drenched straw.

“I love you, Willow Graham.”

**Author's Note:**

> Confession time: I am terrible at endings. Sorry, fam.


End file.
